


The Cooperative Bargaining Approach to Intra-household Economics

by activevirtues



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bargaining, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Pack Dynamics, no really this is just mostly sex, so much porn, so so so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/activevirtues/pseuds/activevirtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott has boundaries, Stiles negotiates, the pack goes after what it wants, and a favor is a favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cooperative Bargaining Approach to Intra-household Economics

Apparently they’ll let anyone on the lacrosse team these days, because when Boyd shows up to practice three days after Scott’s little Ice Rink Rumble and starts flicking balls through Jackson’s practice hoop like it’s no big deal, Finstock immediately bumps Stiles off first line and puts Boyd on the team.

Scott manages about three minutes of really righteous best-friendly anger on Stiles’s behalf, and then he seems to remember that he’s co-captain and also that apparently becoming a werewolf gives _everyone_ magic lacrosse powers, because he goes over to Finstock and suggests that a one-on-one might give the team a more accurate idea of Boyd’s skills.

Stiles lets his head fall back against the bleachers with a thunk and prays to whomever is the patron saint of awkward bisexuals with dumbass best friends to give him strength. “I know all of you can hear me,” he says, “and you should know that you’re all fucking idiots.”

Maybe it’s just that his opinion means nothing since he’s neither first line nor pack, but even Scott ignores him. Of course when Boyd starts to wolf out right there on the field and takes off running, he gets the joy of saying “I told you so” over and over – not that Scott will learn his lesson, of course, because for all his inexplicably improved emotional maturity over the past few weeks, he still cares about 1, Allison, 2, lacrosse, 3, his mom, and 4, Allison. In that order.

Stiles makes the list somewhere around eighth, by his count.

That means it’s up to Stiles to confront Boyd the next day before practice. Boyd, for all his inability to communicate well with people, is both street- and book-smart. He may take some persuading, but surely if Stiles explains it to him the right way, he’ll understand that this is what’s known in academic circles as a Fucking Awful Idea.

“No,” Boyd says when Stiles approaches him.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” Stiles says. 

“You’re going to tell me to quit lacrosse,” Boyd says. “And then you’re going to provide me with all sorts of bullshit reasons using _Scott_ as evidence for why I’m gonna hurt someone.”

Stiles pauses. “Okay, so maybe you knew what I was going to ask.”

“And the answer is no. Are we done?” Boyd raises an eyebrow, starts pulling on pads.

“No, wait. Can we – can we discuss this for a second?” Stiles is really proud his voice doesn’t squeak at all, because Boyd’s eyes go yellow for a moment and it’s not pleasant to think that maybe he’s pissing off someone who doesn’t give a shit if he lives or dies.

Boyd doesn’t say anything, just fastens his other shin pad and watches Stiles. He doesn’t look angry, just – considering.

“So you don’t want to quit lacrosse. I get that. I mean, you know I’m not exactly the world’s best lacrosse player, but – I get that it’s awesome being on a team. So don’t quit. Just – dial it back a little? And maybe don’t get on the field with Scott? He seems to trigger something in you and Isaac. Like since he’s not pack, he forces something out of you that is, uh. Not good for anyone.”

Boyd tilts his head. He looks like he’s reassessing Stiles as a human being. He’s seen that look on Lydia before, and it makes him want to do a little fist pump. Look at him, being all logical and persuasive. Look at him, getting Derek’s pack to back down without any wolfiness necessary. Maybe he should talk to Derek next, see if – “No.”

“I – what?” Stiles says, taking a step back as Boyd stands up.

“I said no. I wanna be first line. Scott’s first line, I wanna play with the best.”

“You’ll still be playing first line! You just won’t be playing when Scott is playing!”

Boyd steps toward him. He looms now. Stiles is pretty sure he never loomed before. It’s like along with the makeovers, Derek made all his wolves take classes on looming, lurking, hitting Stiles in the face, and being abnormally sexy. “I don’t do favors for people that aren’t pack, Stilinski, not without something in return. And this sounds a hell of a lot like a favor.”

“So, uh.” Stiles licks his lips. “You’re saying there’s a chance that you’d do this for me?”

Boyd shrugs. “You have something you’re willing to trade? Let’s negotiate." 

“Now he wants to negotiate,” Stiles mutters. Boyd narrows his eyes, and Stiles sighs. “God, fine. Let’s negotiate.”

There’s that smile, and Stiles is pretty sure that he’s going to regret this. Horrified, he says, “You don’t want my Jeep, do you? Because it’s really not that great, I mean. It’s constantly getting into wolf-related accidents. And you’re around the pack all the time, so it probably won’t work at all for you.”

“Not your Jeep, no,” Boyd says.

Which is how Stiles ends up in the showers when everyone else has left, giving Boyd a very thorough hand job.

And okay, he could have said no. Of course he could have said no, but jerking Boyd off isn’t exactly a _hardship_ – his body looked like it was pretty awesome even before he got the bite, but now it’s a work of art. Boyd is an attractive young man who Stiles has not at all thought about naked in the past, at least no more than he’s thought about any of the other attractive people in the school being naked. So really, Stiles has no objections _per se_ to this bargain, if he shoves aside the implications of trading a sexual favor for a non-sexual favor. At the end of the day, he can mostly convince himself that it’s exactly like jerking himself off, except he’s doing it to someone else. 

Except that it’s nothing at all like jerking himself off.

Boyd is thick and dark in his hand, making noises that Stiles doesn’t make and gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. This does not happen when Stiles gets himself off. It’s not like porn he’s watched, either. It’s better. Boyd is real, and here, and really fucking hot, and Stiles takes a moment just to look and consider what it is he’s doing.

“Just fucking do it,” Boyd says, low and growly, and there’s clearly something else Derek has taught him. Boyd didn’t growl before he joined Derek’s pack.

“Fine, whatever,” Stiles says, and speeds his hand up.

Boyd’s head hits the tile wall of the shower with enough force to crumble the grout. Stiles takes that as a sign he’s enjoying himself, and brushes his thumb across the slit in the head of Boyd’s cock, stroking over his balls with his other hand. “Fuck,” Boyd says.

“You like that?” Stiles asks, and tries to think whether maybe he should try to say something dirty like they do in porn. Maybe something about how big his dick is? 

“Don’t talk,” Boyd says. “Just – keep going.”

Okay, so no dirty talk. He concentrates on the feel of Boyd’s dick in his hands, the impossible hardness of it, how it’s for him, it’s from what he’s doing, and even if it’s not a _thing_ it’s still enough to make Stiles wish he could be getting himself off along with Boyd. But that’s not part of the deal, and even though Stiles is hard enough it hurts and even though the water feels unbelievably good as it streams over his body, he focuses harder on Boyd – on changing up the rhythm of his hands, on twisting just a little when he gets to the head of Boyd’s dick, on trailing his fingers through the slick precome, on all the things he’d want someone to do for him if he could ever persuade someone to actually touch him the way he wants. 

It works, and it works quickly. Boyd’s dick twitches in his hand, and he can feel the buzz of Boyd’s orgasm shifting under his skin before he makes a choked-off sound, almost inaudible over the noise of the shower, and comes pretty fucking copiously all over Stiles’s chest and stomach.

Stiles almost reciprocates right there, almost begs Boyd to help a guy out, but Boyd is stepping away from him, and the shower washes the jizz off as well as it always does. He waves in acknowledgement when Boyd says, “Thanks, man. A deal’s a deal.”

He waits until the locker room door slams shut and he’s sure he’s alone before taking himself in hand.

 

\---

 

It’s not like he expects Boyd to announce to the whole team that Stiles jerked him off in the showers yesterday, but he’s pretty surprised at just how normal everything is the next day. Erica smirks at him in the hall at one point, but then Erica’s suggestive looks have been a regular feature of his school day since she got turned by Derek, so it’s actually kind of comforting to know that hasn’t changed. Scott doesn’t notice anything, of course, but he’s more worried about his relationship with Allison now that Erica has decided that it’s her personal mission to convince him to join Derek’s pack by hypnotizing him with her incredible breasts.

Scott is clearly a stronger man than Stiles. But he’s also really distressed by what Stiles is pretty sure is harmless flirting.

“Allison doesn’t seem to mind,” Stiles points out. “She understands that there is literally no one else you have eyes for. Literally.” Scott still looks worried. “I mean, if you could take your eyes out and hand them to her so she’d carry them around and then all you would be able to look at is her all day, you would do that.”

“But it’s not okay!” Scott says. “She won’t stop and I want her to stop. It makes me really uncomfortable. I keep bumping into her boobs.”

Allen, the guy who has the locker next to Stiles, drops his books with a clatter. Stiles looks up at him – Allen is clearly trying not to laugh at Scott. _Welcome to my world_ , Stiles wants to say.

Scott has a point, though. “She needs to stop making you uncomfortable,” Stiles says. “It’s not cool that she’s not honoring your boundaries, man. You want me to talk to her?”

Scott sighs. “You don’t have to do that. I know she’s, uh. A little hard to handle.”

“I’m not a threat to her,” Stiles points out. “And I know you. I can tell her that the way to get you on her side is not to make you feel like she’s about to lick you.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Scott says, but looks grateful. Then he sees Allison, and he’s off like a rocket before Stiles can respond.

“Nothing stupid,” Stiles mutters as he shoves his books in his locker. “Got it.”

It turns out to be a lot easier said than done. For one thing, it seems like as soon as he actually wants to find Erica, she’s nowhere to be found. He finally follows her to one of the orchestra practice rooms, where she’s taking out her oboe.

“Got a minute?” he says. 

“Not really,” she responds, applying a tube of chapstick-looking stuff labeled _Cork Grease_ to the top joint. “But you’re here anyway.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Great. Okay, so here’s the thing. You need Scott in your pack, right?”

Erica rolls her eyes at him. “Need isn’t the word I’d use, no. Have you _met_ Scott?”

“Okay, fine, you _want_ Scott in your pack. I’m not really sure why, but clearly Derek has made this a priority, and you are falling in line.” She doesn’t deny it, Stiles notices, but she doesn’t respond, so he keeps going. “I’m not gonna tell you not to try to make him a part of your pack.”

She looks up at him now, eyebrows raised. “You’re wiser than I thought you were, Stiles. I thought for sure you’d try to tell me he’s never gonna be a part of our evil league of evil.”

It surprises a laugh out of him, even though he’s well aware that for all her black leather and red lipstick she’s as big a nerd as he is. “No, as far as I’m concerned, it’s hi-ho silver, Bad Horse. I just – you should know something about Scott.”

“What’s that?” she says, taking her reed out of a little old-school film canister and shaking it off. She inserts it into the top of her oboe with practiced hands. It’s not something Stiles has ever seen – if he’s honest, he didn’t even know Beacon Hills High _had_ an orchestra – and it’s cool to see her doing something so confidently that isn’t taking a bite out of someone else’s fruit. “Well?”

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped talking. “Sorry, I – sorry. So the thing about Scott is, he’s incredibly repressed. He’s decided Allison is his one and only true love forever and ever, period, end of story, and he’s intensely uncomfortable when it comes to the idea of being with anyone else. Like, I’m pretty sure that he hasn’t even jerked off since he met Allison. And that’s saying something, because let me assure you that’s basically all he did before.” Okay, maybe that was a little too much information. “What I’m saying is that if you want him to feel like the pack isn’t gonna try to change him, the way to do that is to respect his boundaries. Even if you think they’re stupid boundaries.”

Erica looks like she’s considering what he says as she digs a kleenex from somewhere inside her bag and very carefully blots her lips. “You make a good point,” she says, wiping away the last of her lipstick. “But I’m a little confused as to why he’s not telling me this himself.”

“No you’re not,” Stiles says. “You know he’s gonna keep avoiding being around you unless you promise not to try to bite him or something.”

“Well, that’s no fun,” Erica says, grinning at Stiles. “If he wants a promise from me, he needs to come talk to me himself.”

Stiles knew that this had gone too smoothly. “Come on, Erica, just – do me this favor, please?”

He knows it’s a mistake the moment the word “favor” leaves his mouth. Her eyes flash gold, and a grin that Stiles has seen before on someone else’s face curls her lips. “A favor?” She pauses as if considering. “I only do favors for pack. Or, on rare occasions, for people who have done extra special favors for me.”

“What,” Stiles begins, and sucks in a breath, because oh my god she knows. She _knows_. He tries to keep his heart rate from speeding up. “What kind of favor do you have in mind?”

She sets her oboe very carefully down on a weird little tripod thing next to her chair and then turns to him. “I heard about your little escapade with Boyd. I’m thinking that maybe I’d like to strike a similar deal.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, licking his lips.

She frowns at him. “You know I can tell you’re lying, right? I mean, the way you look right now, I could tell you were lying even if I weren’t a werewolf.”

“Ok, that’s just mean. I’m an awesome liar. I’m the best.”

“Better than Scott doesn’t make you the best, sweetie. It just makes you better than Scott.” She leans forward. Despite the fact that he knows if he looked down now he’d see halfway to her navel, he keeps her eyes locked with his. It annoyed her enough the last time that it kind of makes him feel like he’s getting back at her a little. But she doesn’t look bothered. “You know, I think I’ve figured out a great way to decide this.”

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes locked on the freckle she has about a half an inch above her right eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, Stiles.” She stands up, walks toward him until she’s so close that he’s forced to look down at her. “Here’s the deal – the number of times you can get me off before you come, that’s the number of days I’ll play perfect little lady with Scott. No more, no less.” She holds out her hand to shake. “Do we have a deal?”

He doesn’t really know what to say. “Here?”

“There are six practice rooms and I’m the only member of the symphony with an off-period right now. We’ve got at least 45 minutes before anyone even walks by. Here or the planetarium are basically the only two places in school we’re pretty much _guaranteed_ privacy.”

He takes her hand to shake it, then stops. “Wait, we have a planetarium?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls him down, her bare lips meet his in what is a surprisingly artless kiss for someone who appears to know what she’s doing.

“A _planetarium_?” he asks again when she pulls away.

“Don’t you have something you should be doing?” she asks pointedly, shimmying out of a pair of lacy green boy shorts, her skirt still very much on. She tosses them in his face. He shrugs and gets to work.

 

\---

 

Erica, it turns out, is not as easy to get off as the girls on YouPorn seem to be.

“Have you done this before?” she asks him, looking down at him skeptically, skirt pushed up around her waist. She’s bossy the way he’s always imagined Lydia would be, and it’s really, _really_ doing it for him, even if apparently he’s not doing all that much for her.

“I’ve absolutely done this before,” he says, because there was totally that one time with that girl at his grandparents’ lake house. That time absolutely counts even though he really only spent long enough down there realize that he really, _really_ wanted to lose his virginity more than he wanted to come in his pants while giving her head. “It was awesome. She loved it.”

“I’m sure,” Erica mutters. 

“You know, I don’t _have_ to do this,” Stiles points out, stroking a finger along the smooth, creamy line of her thigh, finishing at the crease of her hip. Maybe his mistake, he thinks, was just diving right in. Maybe a different approach is called for.

“Of course you don’t,” Erica says. “You’re just trying to persuade me to do you a favor.”

Stiles nods. He lets his fingers trail over the soft blond hair along the line of her cunt, soft and gentle like he’s perfectly fine taking his time, like he doesn’t want to put his hands all over her. A different approach. “So why don’t you let me know what I’m doing wrong?” He hears her breath hitch as his other hand comes up, fingers sliding closer and closer to the folds of her cunt. “And of course, it’d help if I knew what I was doing right.”

She’s blinking down at him now, eyes wide and suddenly very golden. Okay, that’s really hot. “I can do that,” she says.

He ducks back between her thighs. “Then let’s try this again, huh?” he says, breathing against her as his hands stroke through folds that are, _yes_ , getting wetter by the moment. Score one for Plan B.

“Stiles,” she says, hands trailing through his hair on either side of his head. They dig in a little, but her nails aren’t wolfed out and it feels kind of good.

“I take it that’s working for you,” he says, lips moving up to where he’s pretty sure her clitoris is supposed to be.

One of her hands clutches at his ear. This should absolutely not be as hot as it is. Nothing should be as hot as this is. “Stiles, come on.”

He keeps sliding his fingers through her folds, slow and gentle, spreading her slick and easy, and when he finds her clit he glides his tongue around it, not on it, because the kick to the shoulder he got when he tried that a few minutes ago is going to bruise and he doesn’t need a matching set. “Better?” he asks.

“Harder,” she says, rough and low like it’s being pulled out of her.

She doesn’t taste like peaches and cream or anything poetic and ridiculous like that, but it’s a clean taste, a little salty, nothing at all like a guy, and she’s so fucking wet for him it makes him feel like he’s won a battle he didn’t know he was fighting. Her heels are digging into his back, and when he licks at the edge of her clit and slips his middle finger into her – just a little, just to feel how she clenches around him – he feels her toes curl against his back and it’s all he can do not to laugh.

“Fuck,” she says from somewhere above Stiles, her voice shuddering like her thighs are doing next to his ears. He keeps going, flicking around her clit with his tongue and circling his finger just into her, just enough, until she shoves him away with a gasp.

“One,” she says on a laugh. “One day of freedom from my horrible attentions for your boy Scott. You wanna try for a second day?”

He grins and moves back into place, and then has a horrible thought. “These rooms are soundproof, right? Because I think you’re kind of loud.”

“Get back to work, Stilinski,” she says, wrapping her legs around his back.

 

\---

 

He manages four orgasms for her before she finally says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and takes his pants off of him. Then it’s a shamefully small amount of time before he’s coming in her hand, not even bothering to pretend that the experience of taking her apart with his mouth hadn’t put him close enough to jizz in his boxers like he’s in an SNL video.

“Four days,” she says, wiping her hand off on a cloth from her oboe case. “Let me know when you’re willing to, uh, _renegotiate_.”

The bell rings, and she smiles at him approvingly as he jumps about three feet in the air and miraculously doesn’t trip over the pants he’s in the process of putting on. “Time for you to go,” she says, and he realizes she’s put herself back together in the time it took for his brain to come back online. She grabs her oboe and plays a scale, clearly done with him.

He avoids Scott for the rest of the day. No need to upset him.

 

\---

 

“Where were you after school yesterday, man?” Scott asks him over Skype. They’ve got a standing Skype-and-video-games appointment on Thursdays at 6 that Stiles will not let Scott cancel on pain of death. He tried to get out of it once to hang out with Allison and Stiles threw the most epic of bitchfits such that Scott hasn’t attempted to back out since. Stiles knows he wasn’t exactly at his most dignified, but friendships require maintenance, and he regrets nothing.

“Dad texted me. I had to come home early and make dinner. He’s gonna be on an all-night call.” He turns on his XBOX. “Battlefield 3, right?”

“You know it.” Scott glances off camera, toward his window. “Oh, shit, not again.”

“What?” Stiles asks, but Scott is already getting up, arguing with someone just low enough that Stiles can’t hear.

“Scott?” he asks, tilting the screen of his laptop. He’s very well aware that it doesn’t actually do anything, but it makes him feel better.

When Scott comes back into view, Isaac is trailing behind him. “What’re you doing?” Isaac asks, peering down at the computer. 

“None of your business is what we’re doing,” Stiles says.

“I’m about to play video games with Stiles,” Scott says gently. Stiles knows he feels sorry for Isaac, responsible somehow for what happened to him. It’s one of the things Stiles loves about Scott – but he also knows that Isaac is being taken care of by Derek and the rest of the pack, and even if they haven’t figured out a way to clear Isaac’s name quite yet, Stiles is pretty sure Isaac is as happy as he’s ever been. “Can we do this later?”

“Do what later?” Stiles asks.

 “Isaac’s been coming over a lot lately,” Scott says, “trying to get me to change my mind about being part of the pack.”

“I don’t have a lot of people to hang out with,” Isaac says to Scott, all Bambi eyes and hunched shoulders. “Boyd and Erica stay with their parents, and Derek is pretty busy.”

“Yeah, well, do you have to come through Scott’s window uninvited?” Stiles asks. “You know he has a life too, right?”

When he turns away from Scott and faces the webcam, Isaac looks unrepentant. “I just want to show him that we’re not trying to change who he is. We just want to help him. The rest of the pack has realized that Scott needs to be his own man – but he can do that and still be a part of the pack.”

Scott nods. “Yeah, they have backed off. It’s been weird – Erica was actually nice to Allison yesterday. And she waved hi at me in the hall, but that was it.”

“We’re trying to respect your boundaries,” Isaac says to Scott.

Wait a second.

“What the _hell_ ,” Stiles shouts.

Both Isaac and Scott turn to look into the webcam. “What’s wrong?” Scott asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Nothing, I think it’s great the pack is finally, you know. Falling in line.”

He’s pretty sure Isaac is laughing at him. Not out loud, and not so Scott will notice, but Stiles notices. Oh, does Stiles notice.

“We just really want you in the pack,” Isaac says. “So I’m gonna try to make sure you see how awesome our company can be. Do you mind if I hang out tonight, Scott?”

“No, of course not,” Scott says at the same time as Stiles says, “Fuck yes, he minds!”

Isaac’s eyebrows shoot up halfway to his perfect curly hair. “I… I didn’t realize. I don’t want to cause problems for you guys. It’s just that Derek really wants me to show you how awesome having a pack behind you can be.”

“No,” Stiles says. “No, tonight is game night. Tonight is always game night. Scott, tell him.”

Scott frowns at him. “Come on, Stiles, Isaac is on the run from the law. It wouldn’t hurt to postpone game night…”

“No.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “Isaac, you’re welcome to hang out another time, but I’d consider it a…” _Oh, god, what is he doing._ “…a real favor if you’d find somewhere else to hang out tonight.”

A smile spreads across Isaac’s face that looks a lot like triumph from where Stiles is sitting. Maybe it’s a problem with the Skype connection. Hopefully. In any case, when Scott twists around to look at Isaac, it’s gone, replaced with that little-boy-lost look Isaac does so well. “I don’t wanna cause any problems,” Isaac says. “This is important to your friend, bro. We’ll hang out tomorrow or something. As a… favor. To Stiles.”

He turns and looks directly into the webcam. “I can find something else to do tonight.”

Then he’s out of the view of the camera, and Stiles hears the sound of the window opening back up, of Scott saying, “Later, man.”

Scott comes back. “What the hell?” he says.

“Let’s just play,” Stiles mutters. 

Scott shrugs and picks up his controller. That’s one of the things Stiles likes most about Scott – he trusts Stiles enough to drop shit when Stiles tells him to.

Or maybe he just doesn’t notice that there’s shit going on. Whatever, the end result is the same.

 

\---

 

They spend the next two hours killing enemy squads in simulated Paris. Stiles wonders sometimes if maybe the fact that there’s so much violence in their lives these days should make their video game nights a little less fun. For him, though, it’s the opposite – there are consequences in their lives these days, the way that there weren’t when they began the game night tradition. It’s a refreshing change of pace to operate in a world where the only consequence to dying is getting cursed at by anonymous 13-year-olds who take Squad Deathmatch way, way too seriously.

When they finally shut it down for the night, he slumps in his chair for a second and tries to relax. “It’s gonna be fine, Stilinski,” he tells himself. “It’s all gonna be fine.”

Which is when something taps at his window, startling him so much he trips over his rolling desk chair and almost knocks the surfboard next to the window over. Isaac’s face appears in the window, all sad eyes. And even when Stiles was afraid of getting eaten by him, he still had to resist the urge to pet his hair. It’s just not fair with these people, he thinks.

Stiles unlocks the window and jerks it open. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but you’re a fugitive and this is the _sheriff’s house_ ,” he hisses.

“Didn’t stop the Alpha,” Isaac says.

“Well, Derek needs _help_ ,” he responds, and while meant to imply _professional, psychological_ help, it actually kind of sounds like he’s saying that Derek needed his help.

Isaac is grinning at him. “Going to invite me in?”

“You’re not a vampire – you don’t need an invitation,” Stiles says. “But if it’ll make you feel better, yeah, come in.”

Isaac slips into his room soundlessly – he gets the impression that actually spending time with Derek has helped Isaac master the basic skills of werewolfing in a way that Scott has yet to manage. Isaac takes a seat in the black-and-white gaming chair next to his bed, and Stiles is kind of immeasurably grateful that he didn’t just sprawl out on the bed.

Both of them know why he’s here.

“So, enjoy your game night?” Isaac asks, picking up one of the books piled up on his bedside table and flicking through it. He doesn’t even look at Stiles.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, and crosses the room, taking his shirt off as he goes.

 

\---

 

“So just to be clear,” Stiles says, pulling away from Isaac’s dick, “you’re gonna stop guilting your way into Scott’s room.”

Isaac’s hand jerks against Stiles’s head. “Fuck, Stiles,” he says. “You know I do what Derek tells me.” 

His nails dig into Isaac’s thighs. “Don’t bring Derek into this.”

Isaac just laughs and shoves his head back down.

Stiles hasn’t exactly sucked a copious amount of dick in his lifetime – only slightly more experience in that department than he’s had with women, which is to say three times since he realized that guys held just as much appeal as girls when he was 13 and jerking off to Ian Somerhalder. There’s something about that dark and dangerous thing that really got him going before he knew just how annoying dark and dangerous could be.

While Isaac might be technically dangerous, he’s not exactly a ball of angst now that he’s lounging on Stiles’s bed with his dick in Stiles’s mouth. He giggles – fucking _giggles_ – when Stiles takes his balls in hand, licks up the middle seam and then sucks on one gently. “Something funny?” Stiles asks into the crease of Isaac’s thigh.

From somewhere above him, he hears Isaac sigh, and one of his hands cups Stiles’s cheek, stroking softly. “Two weeks ago I was a nobody loser, digging graves and wishing I could put myself in one. Now – ah, god – now I’m a werewolf. Things are _hilarious_.”

“It’s good to keep a sense of humor,” Stiles says, mostly because he has no idea what to say to that. He returns his attention to Isaac’s dick, curving against his stomach, flushed plum-red and dripping. He strokes it once, twice, waiting for a reaction from Isaac. “It seems like you’d need it, hanging around Derek.”

Isaac’s hips jerk up. “For someone who doesn’t want to bring up the Alpha, you talk about him a lot.”

Well, that’s just mean.

Just for that, Stiles decides to stop talking altogether. There’s no reason for either of them to be thinking about Derek right now, not when he’s got a favor to repay. Not when Isaac is looking at him like that, blue eyes burning with something else, teeth biting down on his bottom lip like it’s a poor substitute for the delicate skin of Stiles’s neck. He thinks about Erica, about Boyd – about how Isaac would look doing _this_ to him, the flushed curve of his mouth stretched obscenely around Stiles’s cock.

Stiles ruts against the bed; the salt-skin taste of Isaac in his mouth and the friction of his dick against the mattress combine with his own admittedly extensive imagination to create a feedback loop between his mouth and his brain and his hard-on. When Isaac yanks at his ear and says, “I’m gonna, Stiles,” he doesn’t mind that he doesn’t pull back quite in time. He’s gone the second the taste of Isaac hits his lips.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. “Fuck, my sheets.”

“You do all the laundry here anyway, don’t you?” Isaac asks, running a finger through the mess Stiles has made on the bedsheets.

“And the cooking, and the grocery shopping, and everything else, yeah. The glamorous life of Stiles Stilinski.” He rolls over, looks at Isaac, who has begun gathering up his clothes.

“You don’t have to worry,” Isaac says as he pulls a black henley over his head.

“I think you’ll find I do,” Stiles says. “It’s basically _all_ I do." 

“Maybe about some things, but not us. Not the pack. Not what we’re gonna do to Scott, or to Allison or Lydia. Or Jackson, even – as much as that dickbag might deserve it.” Isaac zips up his pants, starts looking for his socks. He finds one under the bed – the other one Stiles thinks might be on the desk. “We’re just trying to survive. That’s all any of us want.”

It’s tempting to believe Isaac. He’s a messed up guy, one who gained power he didn’t know how to handle before he was ready, one who paid consequences for things that were never his fault in the first place, one who isn’t used to kindness from anyone, and Stiles is pretty sure that shit like that fucks you up forever, no matter how hard you try. However, lies – real lies, even lies to save his life – never have and never will come naturally to him. Isaac truly believes what he’s saying. 

But Stiles has known Derek longer than Isaac – longer than any of them, even Scott. He remembers the quiet guy sitting at the station, waiting to give a statement as Stiles did homework at his dad’s desk. He remembers the way Derek looked around the room, the determination and the quiet fury that Stiles hadn’t known someone that age could muster up. He remembers going to his mom’s bedside that night, asking her if the cancer made her mad.

“No, baby,” she’d said. “Oh, no. I save being mad for things I can do something about. If I’m gonna get mad, I want to use it.”

So Isaac might believe he’s telling the truth. But if Stiles knows anything, it’s this: he has to keep Scott away from Derek Hale. Someone that angry, the way Stiles knows that Derek will never stop being, will find and use any tool at his disposal.

He hears a cough, looks up to see Isaac standing at the window, pulling on his black leather jacket. Isaac’s looking at him solemnly. “I’m not gonna stop trying,” Isaac says. “But I’ll stop coming to his room uninvited. I’ll try to – what was it Erica said? ‘Respect his boundaries’ or something?”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. 

“For a little while, at least.” Isaac smiles. “Favors don’t last forever. Not unless you’re pack.” Then he’s swinging himself out the window, and Stiles sees a shape move across his roof and drop down into the trees without a sound.

 

\---

 

At lacrosse practice the next morning, Scott looks at him kind of funny – maybe Stiles should have taken that second shower? – but he doesn’t say anything, so Stiles tries not to worry about it. He mostly warms the bench during practice anyway, so it’s not like Scott has a whole lot of time to talk to him about how he smells like he’s been having sex with werewolves.

“I’ve been informed that I really should have negotiated that favor a little better,” Boyd says when they pass each other in the locker room.

Stiles flushes and says, “Yeah, well, knowing Scott I’m sure you’ll have another crack at it.” And then he sees the amusement on Boyd’s face and says, “Oh, god, I’m just going to go now.”

“I should tell you,” Boyd says as he moves to leave, “Derek wants to see you.”

“I’m sure he does,” Stiles says, and walks out.

He manages to avoid any of Derek’s pack beyond, like, passing them in the hallway and seeing Boyd at lacrosse for a good four days. In that time, Erica resumes her boob-first flirtation with Scott, Isaac pays Scott three after-school window visits, and Boyd confronts Scott on the lacrosse field about six times a practice. Stiles, not having magic werewolf hearing, can’t make out what they say, but Scott is looking increasingly unhappy. By the time Thursday rolls around again, he barely utters a word to Stiles during their weekly video game time, and he gets himself killed so many times the rest of their squad start shooting him themselves.

Something, Stiles concludes, has to be done.

“So any idea where to find Derek these days?” he asks Scott as they’re wrapping up for the night.

“He’s got some lair in the basement of the credit union – you know, where they started building a subway station before they realized Beacon Hills didn’t need a metro? It’s pretty creepy, man. I don’t know why Derek’s there so much – he’s got enough money to get a place that isn’t burnt-out or abandoned.” Scott shoots a glance at him. “You’re not gonna go looking for him, are you?”

“Who in their right mind would do something that stupid?” Stiles knows it’s a non-answer, but Scott doesn’t seem to get it.

“Good, cause that place is seriously creepy, bro,” Scott says, and changes the subject to Allison. It’s the first time he’s seemed at all animated in at least the last day and a half, so Stiles makes a conscious decision to be grateful rather than annoyed.

When they switch it off for the night, he starts to plan. Tomorrow, he’s going to go find Derek and they’re gonna talk this over. He can’t deal with Scott being like this. 

He doesn’t sleep very well. His dreams are full of gleaming white teeth in the moonlight and eyes that blink out at him from a darkened forest. A couple of times during the night he wakes up, thinking he hears something outside his window. Nothing’s there, though.

At least, he’s pretty sure there’s nothing there.

 

\---

 

As luck (good or bad, the jury is still out) would have it, his dad is on duty Friday night, so there’s nobody to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing when he drives off in the middle of the night to go find Derek’s new hiding spot. He had an excuse prepared and everything – one of the guys on the team is throwing a party, and even though he hasn’t technically been invited, he definitely was standing right next to him in the locker room when he was telling Greenberg and Sanderson about it, so in a way that makes him invited-adjacent.

In the end, though, nobody questions him. There’s nobody on the roads at this time of night, nothing but the flicker of the street light on the corner to greet him when he pulls up to the alley next to the credit union. 

“Well this is a terrible idea,” he tells himself. 

The entrance to what would have been the metro station is pretty easy to break into. Sheets of plastic hang down across a few doorways, but everything is unlocked. A couple bare light bulbs dangle from the ceiling, providing enough of a glow that Stiles doesn’t trip on any of the detritus from the construction that still litters the floor.

It’s a shithole, basically, but it’s exactly the kind of place someone with Derek’s twisted mind would stumble across and think, “Oh, hey, let’s live _here_!”

There’s a barebones stairwell at the end of the last room, and when he follows it down it takes him to what presumably would have been the platform, had construction gone further. At the end of the room, under a flickering light, sits a shadowy subway car.

“Derek?” he calls, because there is no fucking way he’s going in that thing unless he can absolutely help it. “Nice place you got here, man.”

No response.

Ugh, _fine_. He pushes the curtain of plastic aside and steps into the subway car, pulling himself up with one of the handrails. “This place really has that Abandoned Construction Site aesthetic I know you really go for. Great job on that. Come give me the grand tour and we can talk.”

Still nothing. He walks to the end of the subway car, expecting to find maybe a little mattress in the back or something, anything to indicate that this is the right place. Maybe Scott’s mistaken – maybe Derek’s found somewhere nice and normal to call home. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Stiles doesn’t jump out of his skin, because he was totally _expecting_ something like this to happen, nor does he make a sound that might possibly be mistaken for the helpless squeal of a baby kitten. “Derek, hey. I like what you’ve done with the, uh. Subway car.” 

Derek doesn’t smile, of course. He tilts his head slightly. “I haven’t done anything with it. It was like this when I found it.”

“I, uh. Okay. Well, I suppose that’s a valid interior design decision.”

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Derek repeats. He steps into a beam of light, one of the few coming through from the dirty windows. He’s wearing what looks to be a very soft gray t-shirt, dark jeans, and black sneakers. For a moment Stiles wonders if werewolves are colorblind, and that’s why Derek tends to dress in nothing but grayscale, but decides maybe it’s best not to mention it. Certainly not with the way Derek is currently looking at Stiles, like he’s seconds away from throwing him bodily out of the subway car.

And then again out of the room.

And then possibly up the stairs.

“I just thought that we needed to have a talk about, uh. Scott.”

Derek’s mouth tightens. “You need to stay out of Scott’s business.”

“No, Derek, I don’t. I’m Scott’s best friend. I look out for him.”

“I know exactly what you do for him,” Derek snaps. “I don’t think _he_ knows what you do for him, but I definitely do.”

Stiles’s hand comes up to scratch the back of his head. He’s trying for nonchalance. “I’m not, uh, not really sure what you’re referring to." 

Derek steps closer, face half in shadow now. His eyes flash red very briefly, just enough to make Stiles gulp against the fear that seems to be lodged in his throat. “You have to know I can smell you on them, right? Even if they didn’t tell me?”

“Smell what?” Stiles asks.

“You. Your scent. Your – the scent of your release.” Derek pauses. “The scent of their release, mixed with yours.”

“That’s really not any of your business,” Stiles says. “And it wouldn’t happen if you’d just tell your pack to back off Scott.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Derek says. His voice is harsh, the way Scott’s sometimes gets when he’s fighting for control with his wolf. “He belongs with us. We’re not going to stop trying to make him see that. So I think you’re the one that needs to back off.”

Okay, that’s just fucking ridiculous. Derek’s making it sound like Stiles is some kind of, like, sex predator for werewolves. That’s totally not how it is, and Stiles actually kind of finds that offensive. “I’m just a human, Derek. I’m not capable of doing anything with your pack that they don’t want to do.”

“I don’t think you have any idea what my pack wants to do to you,” Derek says. “Not a fucking clue.” 

Stiles’s mouth goes dry. He’s scared of Derek – he’d have to be an idiot not to be scared of Derek – but at the moment, his threats seem to be… promises. Promises of something Stiles only lets himself think about alone, in the shower, when he’s got a lot of time on his hands.

“I think we should show him,” Erica says, stepping into the subway car from the door behind Stiles. He turns to face her, and she curves a hand against his face, skimming it along his cheek and down to his neck, where her nails – human right now, and painted a shimmering bronze, scratch just enough for him to really feel it. 

“I agree,” Boyd says from next to where Derek is standing, watching everything. Boyd walks toward them, the subway car swaying a little as he gets closer. “He doesn’t understand the consequences of this little game he’s playing.”

“He doesn’t know what we’re about,” Isaac says, pushing aside the plastic sheeting and stepping into the subway car at the far end. He walks toward them, but he talks to Derek. “He doesn’t know what you’re about, Alpha.”

They surround him, Erica and Boyd and Isaac, but they look to Derek. Erica drops her hands away, and for a moment Stiles thinks maybe time has stopped, maybe he’s the only one left unfrozen in a world gone still. He takes a shaky breath in, though, and when he does Derek says, “Fine.”

As one, all of their eyes land on Stiles. “Is this what I think it is?” Stiles asks. “Because I don’t know how comfortable I am with…” And then he trails off, because Erica is reaching up, licking along his neck to a spot just beneath his left ear, and Boyd and Isaac are grinning at each other like they’re at the soda shop, about to split a milkshake.

Stiles’s milkshake. Apparently, he thinks, it really does bring all the boys to the yard.

He must have said that out loud, because Derek says, “Isaac, shut him up.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Isaac says, and kisses him.

It’s good – Isaac’s hesitant, like he’s not sure what Stiles is going to do next, and it helps him focus on the press of Isaac’s mouth on his. He can almost pretend, letting his eyes drift shut, that they’re back in Stiles’s room, somewhere safe and familiar and _normal_.

“Boyd,” Derek says, “take his shirt off.”

Except for that. Derek’s voice snaps him back to reality, pulls his focus back to the three people with their hands on him, their attention given over to making him do exactly what Derek wants. It makes him shudder with that same fear-lust that always seems to take over his brain when he’s around Derek.

Boyd has Stiles’s shirt all the way unbuttoned now, and Erica’s helping him push it off of his shoulders, pressing little biting kisses into his skin as she goes. Isaac sucks gently at his bottom lip, and it’s actually kind of sweet, a little, the frustrated noise Erica makes when she realizes Stiles has about six layers they’re gonna have to get through before he shows any skin, the low laugh that rumbles out of Boyd in response.

“Keep working on getting him undressed, Boyd. Erica, take over from Isaac. I need him to do something for me.”

Isaac moves away with a little sigh, giving Stiles one last lingering kiss, but as soon as his mouth is gone Erica is kissing him, body pressed up against his like she needs him to stay warm. She’s a completely different kisser than Isaac – he’s sweet and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world and wants to spend it all kissing Stiles. She throws herself into the kiss with everything she has, lips and tongue and teeth, nipping at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan and tilt his hips into hers.

And then Boyd is yanking Stiles’s shirt over his head, murmuring an apology in his ear even as his big hands land on Stiles’s shoulders and stroke down, pulling him so he’s flush against Boyd’s chest. Erica’s still kissing him, but now Boyd is breathing into Stiles’s ear, raking down the side of it with his teeth, and his hands are finding their way into the waistband of Stiles’s jeans.

“Bring him over here,” Derek says, and Stiles finds himself being walked toward where Derek is sitting. There’s a pile of blankets heaped onto the seats of the subway car, enough that it looks almost like a little bed, and Boyd and Erica drape him onto it even as their hands stroke his skin, teasing his nipples and scratching at the soft skin of his chest with nails that don’t quite look wolfish but are nevertheless a little too sharp to be strictly human. Any other time it might hurt, but with Boyd’s mouth at his neck and Erica’s laugh filling the air – and, more than anything, with the way that Derek is looking at him all spread out, like a banquet to feast upon – it’s all so mixed up with pleasure that he can’t tease any one thing out, can’t separate one strand of emotion away from any of the others. He closes his eyes, trying to block out one of his senses at least, hoping it will make him feel less exposed, less bared to these creatures who suddenly feel very, very in control of him. 

It doesn’t really work, though. And if he keeps his eyes closed, he wouldn’t be able to see the look on Derek’s face – the red-eyed _want_ on Derek’s face.

Isaac moves to kneel at his side, and Derek says, “His pants. Just his pants, nothing else.” Almost before he speaks, Erica is sliding down his body, pulling his shoes off and taking his jeans with them. “ _Now_ , Isaac,” Derek says, his gaze still locked with Stiles.

Stiles feels Isaac’s hot breath against his cock before he looks – Isaac is bowed over Stiles, mouthing at the line of Stiles’s erection through his blue striped boxers. He takes a moment to be immeasurably glad that he did not choose to wear his rubber ducky boxers today. Then Isaac is sucking at the head of his dick through the fabric, and it’s rough and wet and Isaac’s mouth is just this side of _obscene_. Fuck, he has to close his eyes – has to, because no matter where he looks there’s someone there, someone supernaturally hot, someone who is focused on the sounds he’s making, the bare stretch of his body.  If he sees them – if he sees the heat in Derek’s eyes as he directs his pack to take Stiles apart inch by inch, moment by moment – he’s going to come all over himself, embarrass himself in front of these beautiful people and their expectations.

Boyd noses along his neck, taking a deep breath, and says, “He’s close, Derek. What do you need us to do next?” His voice rumbles along Stiles’s skin, and he tries to figure out whether it’s the hum of that voice along his neck that’s making his hips jerk up on their own, or whether it’s the words themselves, knowing that they’re waiting on Derek to figure out what to do with him next.

He holds his breath and waits for Derek’s answer, feeling as tightly wound as a violin string awaiting the slide of a bow.

“He needs a little break,” Derek says. “Make him work for you.”

Almost immediately Isaac’s mouth drifts away from his dick, and he makes a really undignified sound as the air cools the wetness on his boxers were Isaac was licking him. Boyd shifts up, moving so he’s almost cradling Stiles’s head in his lap, and Stiles can feel his dick through his jeans, stiff and insistent against his cheek. “You ready for this?” Boyd says, thumb against Stiles’s mouth. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“If more people knew that this was a surefire way to shut him up,” Erica says as she pulls her shirt over her head, “I think he’d be surprised at just how much ass he’d be getting.”

“People love hearing me talk,” Stiles says, startled at the hoarseness in his own voice. “I’m delightful.”

“Boyd,” Derek snaps, clearly done with their banter. “Either put him to work, or let someone else have a turn.”

And then Boyd is shifting, pulling the zipper down on his jeans. He doesn’t bother taking his pants off, just pushes his underwear down and slides his cock against Stiles’s lips. It’s already beading with precome, and when he smears it across Stiles’s mouth, Stiles can’t help darting his tongue out to taste. “That’s right,” Boyd says, and then Stiles has Boyd’s dick in his mouth.

Over the rush of blood through his ears he can hear Erica and Isaac – they’re laughing together, between kisses, and when he catches a glimpse of them past Boyd he sees they’re mostly naked – Isaac is still wearing a dark grey shirt, mostly unbuttoned, but nothing else, and Erica is in a pair of dark blue briefs, her truly unbelievable breasts currently being stroked by Isaac’s deft hands.

“Isaac,” Derek says. “Erica. Move on.”

Stiles wants to say no – he’s enjoying the sight of Isaac laughing down at Erica, of the picture they make together, all messy hair and flashing eyes. But Boyd is thrusting now, fucking his face, and the only noise he can make is a hum of frustration, because it doesn’t matter how he wants this to proceed. They’re going to do what they want, at the pace that they want, and he’s going to take it.

Not just take it – _like_ it. 

Isaac takes Stiles’s hand as he and Erica step forward. He kisses the palm, an incongruous moment of gentleness, and then he brings it to the edge of Erica’s briefs, tucks Stiles’s fingers just under the lace.

“Use him, Erica,” Derek says, but Erica is already covering his hand with hers, moving his fingers just where she wants them. She’s wet, so fucking wet, and he makes a noise around Boyd’s cock that, if his mouth weren’t full, would probably be something like _fuck yes_.

He feels a weight on his legs – Isaac has moved to straddle him. He doesn’t touch Stiles’s cock, though, just gets a hand on himself and starts jerking off. Stiles can see his eyes jump from tableau to tableau - watching Erica use Stiles’s hand like a sex toy, watching Boyd fuck his mouth, holding Stiles down with his big hands and stretching his mouth wide with his cock. Stiles sees him look down to where he’s jerking off right next to Stiles’s erection, so hard he’s curved against his stomach and leaving wet trails of precome against his own skin.

“So good,” Isaac says, and then he looks up at Derek. Stiles sees his eyes turn gold and stay that way, sees his nails start to curve into claws. “Alpha,” he says on a desperate gasp for air.

“Isaac,” Derek says roughly. “Go ahead.”

Then Isaac is coming all over Stiles, making a noise like a howl and spattering Stiles with wet warmth until he slumps back, fingers tracing through the mess he just made, a dazed expression on his face.

He can’t take his eyes off Isaac; Isaac can’t take his eyes off Derek. Dimly he hears Derek say, “Switch with Boyd,” and his gaze moves to Erica, who’s walking toward him, shedding her underwear as Boyd pulls away. He makes room for Erica, but not before he bends and kisses Stiles once, biting at Stiles’s lower lip and sliding his tongue against Stiles’s like he’s trying to wipe out any trace of his own flavor.

“You heard Derek,” Erica says, swatting Boyd on the ass, and then she’s straddling Stiles’s face with a low laugh, adding, “Let’s see if you can beat your previous record, Stiles.”

Now he can barely turn his head, can’t see anything but Erica’s thighs, the swell of her breasts, her grin as she watches him breathe deeply of her scent – but from behind her he can hear the sound of Boyd and Isaac, of them kissing each other, of Isaac’s hand moving slick on Boyd’s cock. It makes him hum into her cunt, the thought of it, and she lets him bring a hand up to flick at the edge of her clit with his thumb, spread her open so he can really get to work.

“Boyd,” Derek says. “He has two hands. Use one.”

He hears Boyd and Isaac move closer to him, and now he can hear the low murmur of Isaac’s voice as Boyd slips his cock into Stiles’s other hand, wrapping his hand around Stiles’s fist and showing him just how to jerk. “Look at him,” he thinks he hears Isaac say. “He’s ours, look. Make him ours." 

Erica’s close, dripping across his mouth and down his neck, and he circles the entrance to her cunt with his tongue as he grinds a knuckle down hard against the hood of her clit. She tilts forward, like if she were standing she’d stagger, and he hears the sound of claws twisting into metal and metal giving way. He gets the tip of his thumb inside her, and she clenches down on him as he keeps going, driving her up, sucking at her clit and hearing her scream.

At once Boyd is pulsing in his hand, his come mixing with Isaac’s on his chest. He hears Isaac say, “Keep going, yeah, go on,” and Boyd’s not stopping, and Erica wrenches herself off of him with a final shudder just in time for him to see Isaac capture Boyd’s mouth in an absolutely filthy kiss, the last of his come catching Stiles across the cheek.

And then Derek stands up.

Their heads turn, following his movements like iron shavings to a magnet, involuntary. “Clean yourselves up,” he tells them, and they’re picking up their clothes and leaving before Stiles can even bring himself to speak. He’s still rock fucking hard, shaking with want, and he moves his hand to his cock to finish himself off. But Derek shoots him a look – just a look, saying nothing, but it’s enough to have him gripping the edge of the bench like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling off.

“So that’s what the pack wants from you,” Derek says. “But then there’s me. What _I_ want."

He pulls his shirt up over his head in one smooth motion. Stiles has seen him shirtless before – hell, he’s jerked off to the thought of Derek shirtless before. But this is Derek looking at him with intent, tossing his t-shirt off to the side and starting in on his jeans without a pause. Stiles wants to curl in on himself. He wants to whimper. He wants to _come_.

“You can’t imagine what I want from you,” Derek says, and if Stiles could form coherent sentences he’d beg to differ, because right now it’s all he can imagine.

“I need,” he begins, voice breaking on a gasp as Derek’s hand circles his ankle, shifting his leg to settle between his thighs.

“You don’t know what you need,” Derek says. His teeth are wolfed out. It should be disturbing, but it’s really, _really_ not. “It’s up to me to give you what you need." 

Then he trails a finger through the cooling come on Stiles’s stomach, getting it wet, and moves it down to press against the pucker of Stiles’s ass. He just traces it around, just waiting for Stiles to do something, to say something, to relax or tense up or move or _something_.

So Stiles shifts, crossing his arms behind his head and resting his head on them, splaying his thighs so one of his legs is all the way off the seat. He knows how he must look – shameless, begging for it. But he’s just had three different people orgasm on him and he’s so hard he’s pretty sure his dick could hammer nails. He passed up begging a good thirty minutes ago.

Derek makes a noise like a growl deep in his throat, and Stiles feels Derek’s thick finger slip in, just to the first knuckle, as Derek dips down to nose at the soft skin of his balls. Stiles gasps, and the finger slips in all the way. He’s done this to himself a couple times, but it’s never felt the way that this does. “Doing so well,” Derek says, moving his finger a bit as he licks at the skin of Stiles’s thigh where it meets his hips. “You’re gonna do it for me, aren’t you? Give me what I want?”

Then he pulls his finger out, and Stiles feels himself clench down on nothing. He hears a frustrated whine, realizes he’s the one making it – but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. “Derek,” he says. “Derek, come on.”

Derek dips his fingers in the mess on Stiles’s stomach again, tracing a design of some sort, his stubbled cheek still pressed against Stiles’s thigh. A moment later, Stiles feels two fingers press at his entrance, and before he can register what’s happening, Derek’s biting into the thin skin of Stiles’s thigh just as he slips his fingers in. He sucks at the mark, pulling up a livid purple bruise as his fingers thrust in, and Stiles cries out – there’s just too much, too fucking much of everything, and all he wants is to _come_.

“Now,” he gets out. “Now, please. _Derek_.”

For a moment he thinks Derek’s not going to listen, that he’s going to keep Stiles balanced on the knife-edge of his orgasm forever, that this is all Stiles will ever know. But no, there’s mercy somewhere beneath that unreadable shell – or maybe Derek is just as desperate for it as Stiles is, and better at hiding it. Because Stiles feels the blunt head of Derek’s cock pressing against him, and almost as soon as his fingers pull out he’s sliding it in, slow and shivery and unbelievably hot. It’s almost too much, and for a moment he wants to shove at Derek, tell him to – well, actually, he’s not sure, because the thought of this being over is at once horrible and wonderful. But finally, _finally_ , Derek’s hand wraps around Stiles’s dick, and he’s jerking Stiles as his cock moves inside him, and in an amount of time that would be embarrassingly short if Stiles still had the capacity to be embarrassed, he’s coming so hard he blacks out. He thinks just maybe he hears Derek say something, shout something, as he goes under. Or maybe he dreams it.

 

\---

 

He only comes to when he feels Derek coming in his ass. So that’s a thing that happens.

Derek’s hand is still moving on Stiles’s dick, which gives another twitch and somehow spurts again, because apparently sex with werewolves brings with it new sexual powers never before seen in his admittedly not particularly extensive experience. It’s enough to make him see stars, steps over the line of pleasure and into kind of painful, so he shoves at Derek as he slumps over Stiles, managing to dislodge his hand from Stiles’s cock and stopping him from being smothered by all of Derek’s weight.

“You’re fucking heavy, man,” Stiles mutters, but Derek’s nuzzling at his neck and there isn’t as much vitriol behind it as there might otherwise have been.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, and sucks a hickey into his neck for good measure.

“I deserve a medal,” he tells the ceiling of the subway car. “A big one.”

 

\---

 

They clean up – apparently the bathrooms managed to get completed even though the rest of the station was left unfinished, and so Stiles can put himself back together enough that he’ll pass for someone who wasn’t just debauched in an abandoned building by four werewolves. At least, he will if nobody looks too closely.

“Leave Scott alone, though, for real,” he tells Derek as he swings up into his Jeep, wincing a little when he sits down too hard.

Derek doesn’t say anything, so Stiles looks up. Derek looks… actually, he looks seriously unhappy.

“Come on, Derek, we made a deal.”

Derek just turns and walks away. 

Well, _that_ was weird.

 

\---

 

It’s a weekend, thank god, so he skips lacrosse practice and sits around playing Skyrim and eating Pringles all of Saturday and accidentally-on-purpose doesn’t return any of Scott’s calls. When he looks at his phone Saturday night, he sees that three of those eight calls were from Isaac – not sure how Isaac got his number, but _okay_ – and that Scott’s last text reads _comin over if u dont say somthin!! :(_

 _Not feeling well_ , he texts Scott. _Been hugging the toilet most of the day. Don’t come over, I’ll kill your wolf nose_.

Scott replies a minute later with _sux bro_ and then, after another couple minutes, _allison says feel better :(_

His dad, for once, doesn’t call him out on his laziness, so in gratitude Stiles roasts a chicken and makes Mexican rice and a big caesar salad for dinner Sunday night, and finishes up two essays besides. “Feeling better?” his dad asks him across the dinner table. 

Stiles nods, and tries to not let his hand drift to his neck.

“Anything you want to talk to me about?” his dad says. He’s got a careful expression on his face, like he doesn’t want to spook Stiles. It makes Stiles sad, a little. This isn’t how they are with each other.

“So much,” Stiles says honestly. “I will when I can, okay?”

His dad nods. “I’ll be here,” he says, and Stiles feels a knot loosening in his stomach that he forgot was even twisted up in him until it started to unravel. It feels good.

“I know,” he says, and bites into a chicken leg.

 

\---

 

So all that’s left is to face the world at school on Monday. He skips lacrosse practice again, but Scott finds him in the hall before first period, a determined expression on his face. “Glad you’re feeling better,” he says. “I have something I need to tell you.”

“Is something wrong with Allison?” Stiles asks. 

“No, man, I just…” Scott pauses like he’s trying to find his words. “I decided to join up with Derek’s pack.”

“You did _what_ now?” Stiles says, perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary, and pulls Scott into the nearest empty classroom even as Scott is saying something about Isaac and safety in numbers and Allison’s grandfather, and really Stiles isn’t listening because _what the fuck is wrong with him_. 

“It’s just what’s best for everyone,” Scott concludes, “so I told Derek I’d join when he asked, and.” Scott stops abruptly, stepping closer to Stiles and just _sniffing_.

“And what?” Stiles asks, trying not to look worried.

“And apparently you’ve also joined the pack?” Scott says, sounding really confused. “Did you – what did you do?” He steps close enough to where he’s almost, but not quite, pressed against Stiles. It makes Stiles more than a little uncomfortable, particularly because right now Stiles is remembering _exactly_ what he did to apparently initiate himself into the pack.

“I don’t – I have to go.” And then he bolts.

He hasn’t skipped class since freshman year, but he figures he’s got a good hour and a half of his study hall before anyone tries to take attendance and realizes he’s off campus, so he gets in his car and drives. Then he realizes he’s almost out of gas, which is really not what he needs right now.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he shouts when he gets out of the car, throwing open the gas cap and kicking his back tire hard enough that his foot kind of hurts. “ _Fuck_ fuck fuck _fuck_ fuck.”

The woman pumping gas next to him gives him a really dirty look and drives off.

“Something wrong?”

Derek is standing in front of him, twirling the keys to his Camaro and clearly trying not to laugh. Or whatever Derek does instead of laughing – Stiles has a difficult time imagining Derek’s laughter.

“So not only do I find out that my best friend has joined your little club, but then he informs me that, hey, guess what, _so have I._ And do you know how he figured this out, Derek? By _smelling_ me. Because apparently I now _smell like pack_." He hears his voice rising but he doesn't care. "So yeah, I’d say there’s something wrong.”

Derek doesn’t look sorry. Stiles isn’t sure what exactly he expected, but he’s not getting it, because Derek just steps closer to him and says, “I don’t know what you thought was going to happen, Stiles.”

Stiles waves a hand. “Not – not _that_!” He takes a deep breath, tries to center himself. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Derek, but it’s really not funny.” 

“It’s not funny, Stiles,” Derek agrees. “But it’s real. It’s done. Scott’s okay with it – why can’t you be?” His eyes are almost gentle when he tilts his head, watches Stiles fidget. Stiles feels himself calming down a little bit in the presence of Derek’s strange serenity.

“I can’t figure out why you’d want me in your pack,” he says. “I’m not a werewolf, Derek, I’m just Scott’s friend. What the hell place would I have in your pack?”

“Whatever place you want to have,” Derek says. He smiles now, a genuine smile like Stiles hasn’t seen before. It’s real and it’s a little crooked and it’s so charming Stiles can’t deal with it. He feels himself grinning back. 

“Yeah?” he says, voice light and noncommittal. “Whatever I want?”

“Well,” Derek says, “I think at this point the pack may owe you a favor or two.”

“Damn right,” he replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sarkastic, who helped me look this over and also encouraged me to get into Teen Wolf in the fandom. I hate/love you.
> 
> I have a feeling this is going to end up extending itself into other stories, so, uh - keep an eye out for that?


End file.
